fuck me up, steal my records.

i wish i could go back to last night. i could've listened to ryan for days. months. the air, the beer, the music, the friends, everything. it was one of those occasions when you're just existing and perceiving and suddenly you get this feeling that life is actually okay. more than okay, maybe.

today i'm dealing with a pheromone crash. i was oozing my musk all over the place last night, i think i'm a little dried out. that's just what he does to me. i wonder why i fall in love with rockstars. couldn't i prefer a less-complicated type? like athletes. or investment bankers. i'm generalizing, but you get the point. instead, it has to be the emotionally-driven musician who gets all mola ram on me, thrusting his hand into my chest to grasp my thumping heart and yank it from my thorax. it really isn't healthy to be so easily conquered. honestly, all you need to do is grab an acoustic and stop shaving for a few days and sing all achy. bam. i'm yours, take me. throw my name into a song or two. sing about your chameleon eyes and how i used to tell you their color every day because sometimes you just didn't know. someone had to tell you, and i was looking at them the most. sing about how you miss me. people will listen and get sad because it'll grub up their own pain, but you would know and i would know they could never quite understand.

ryan, though. what a sweet life he leads. he plays his music and writes, travels around and sings to make girls swoon. mmmm. that would be nice i think.

his blog makes me love him more. it's sexy in the way that cigarettes are sexy.

i secretly hope ryan is one of those people who never showers. just once a week, maybe, or once every two weeks. i hope he gets a really distinctive odor that no one would ever mind because it's just his essence and it smells sort of like his music. i hope his guitar smells like him, too. i hope i'd be able to catch a whiff from the front row.